


please don't find me rude

by radicalvodkaaunt



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, Swearing, just mesut struggling with his life and his emotions tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 13:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalvodkaaunt/pseuds/radicalvodkaaunt
Summary: A contemplation of Mesut Özil's first season of Arsenal as he begins to understand the language, understand the football, and most of all understand Mathieu Flamini.





	1. Pt.I

**Author's Note:**

> This was only supposed to take a week and be >5k words. Instead it's taken 2 1/2 months and is 14k words. Cool.  
> Also I only started watching football like a year ago so I wasn't around for the 13/14 season, so if my interpretation of it is off or there's inaccuracies with injuries mentioned sorry, I tried to research everything but it's not all easily found.  
> On another note how is a ship that was voted best bromance got so little fic? It's a disgrace.  
> Second fic with a title from Childish Gambino's Terrified. Go listen to that song :).  
> Enjoy.

Mesut thought it would be easier to go through life without feeling a damn thing the moment he left Madrid. He’s a footballer, he doesn’t have time for relationships, or to turn a house into a home, to learn a new language. He barely has time to think, deadline day breathing down his neck like a curse, until he snaps, until he leaves. Relationships mean nothing in the world of football. Real want him, Real don’t want him, it doesn’t matter because he’s gone.

And now he’s here. He doesn’t know exactly where here is. The SatNav had led the way and Mesut had watched it, new tyres greeting new roads, a new city disappearing for countryside. One day it will all be a familiar routine, he’ll know exactly where he is. For now, he’s lost.

“Do you like London?” a voice asks, making Mesut look up from where he was passing the ball back and forth to the other man. Disinterested, but not showing it. It wasn’t so much the Mesut had fallen out of love with football, every game he played was a moment he’d treasure. It was the lifestyle, the expectations, the media. He feels like he’s in the claustrophobic bubble, floating upwards until the air is too thin and he can’t breathe. And every day people are waiting for him to fall, hoping he crashes and shatters into a million pieces. Mesut had thought coming to Arsenal would help diminish useless rumours and back-page-spreads. Mesut hadn’t known The Sun existed.

But London is beautiful. It feels like new beginnings to fill the void of an end, it reeks of success and pompous people who think they’re better than you. Mesut liked that challenge. Madrid was rich and royal, it tasted of dust and felt like temperatures too high. London was the smell of grass growing and the sight of glass skyscrapers being built. It was progress, Mesut was progressing.

It wasn’t home.

“London is good,” Mesut replied. He sighs, wishing he knew the right words. It’s like a barrier between his brain and his tongue. He knows exactly what he’d like to say, he just _can’t._

The other seems sympathetic, and Mesut could hear his accent, recognisable but not too thick. He always spoke slowly to Mesut, although they’d only exchanged a few words, Mesut could tell he understood what it was like. It wasn’t like Wilshere, who chattered on without a care to who was listening, and revealing to Mesut just how much he didn’t know. He doesn’t want to feel sorry for himself, but he wants to be able to have a basic level of communication between his teammates.

“You’ll understand the language better soon, don’t worry,” he says, trying to be reassuring. Mesut’s not sure he wants to know the language, to gain a connection to a land he doesn’t belong in. He’ll leave again, as he always does, perhaps back to Germany, back home. Where he can speak freely, not a single breath wasted on _umm_ s and _err_ s. For now, he had to connect each word like a jigsaw puzzle piece and hope it’s correct.

“Thank you, Flamini,” the drill Mesut forgot they were doing ended. He felt on an entirely different plane sometimes, lost within himself. He believes the inner focus is what brings the world closer to him, so close he can spot a through ball and a run simultaneously, inch perfect passes pulling away at threadbare defences. He didn’t need other people for that, he only needed himself.

Flamini seemed nice, Mesut didn’t know much about him, nothing really. But he cared. It made Mesut want to care as well, but that isn’t the plan. He plays at Arsenal for five years, he peaks and then his form slowly declines until he is a name forgotten. Flamini wasn’t even a name in the intricate details, an irrelevant part in a play.

But still, Flamini hangs an arm over Mesut’s shoulders like old friends, a sticky drizzle of rain falling, but with the way Flamini smiles the burning sun of Madrid could still be present. “Please my friend, call me Mathieu.”

Mathieu. The name felt heavy, weighing down on Mesut’s tongue like lead. He could feel the poisonous charm filter into his veins through a name alone.

Mesut would end whatever this was before it could even begin.

-

Mesut didn’t know how it happened, let alone when exactly, but he’d let Mathieu Flamini into his life. Perhaps he was lonely, the huge city felt so cold when no one is around. More likely he is bored, in need of someone to talk to that isn’t himself. He’d get himself a dog tomorrow, pretend they could listen. Today he is sat in a restaurant with Mathieu.

It had gone like this. Mathieu casually told Mesut as they warmed up, “If we win today, I’ll take you out to dinner.” Mesut thought the proposition was slightly a little odd. They were playing Norwich, a team floating around the relegation zone. Yes it was early days and Mesut didn’t know much about the teams in the premier league, but they were bound to win against this one. So, why make it sound like a challenge?

“I will play bad then,” Mesut replied, and smiled despite himself and Mathieu laughed too, light and airy to clear away the muggy heat. It would rain later.

Mesut scored a brace in that game, Flamini had gone off injured. It was easy for Mesut to swallow his worries like the vitamin pills he had to take and to play the game. He could never care for his friend, in fact he didn’t consider the midfielder his friend.

So that explained Mesut’s surprise when he found Mathieu in the hallway, leant against the wall with crutches around his wrists. Mesut didn’t feel his heart leap in inexplicable anxiety at the sight of them, didn’t feel blood rush in his veins like he is back on the pitch. He licked his lips and trained his face into one of uncaring. Only then did he walk over.

Mathieu looked up from his phone, that had been setting his face aglow with white light, the corridor itself darkened to match the evening light that was outside. It was their own world, not a person or a window around. Trapped, with lights that were slowly dimming, this was the life they lived. Mathieu smiled, perfectly unaware.

“I don’t actually need the crutches, physio forced me to take them,” Mathieu explained, peeling away from the wall, limping along, the clang of crutches hitting the floor rhythmic and balanced like a heartbeat. Mesut could feel his heart, hard and fast, and he followed, stride slow to keep pace with the other. “I was told to go home and rest, but a promise is a promise.” Dinner, of course. Mesut hadn’t had much time to find the best places to eat, maybe this was his time to take in the London culture. He was tired however, he wouldn’t let this last long.

“How long will you have a injury?” Mesut asks. It had been at least 2 hours, Mesut hadn’t checked his phone for a while however. They sat in the very corner of a run down restaurant. Mathieu had driven out, the sun long gone and replaced with black clouds, the moon not making an appearance. Mesut felt dizzy as road signs he didn’t have time to read whizzed past, and suddnenly he was nowhere. He was somewhere, but it felt like nothing.

Mesut didn’t understand why they had come to this place, with the blinking neon sign detailing to all around they were indeed _open_ , not until he stepped inside, the crutches discarded in the car. It felt like a sigh of relief walking in, a beautifully empty restaurant, and Mesut understood. Finally, something in England that Mesut understood.

Mathieu shrugs, looking down at his leg under the table as if it will tell him, “They told me four weeks, but that’s what they always say, isn’t it?” They sat in the back corner of the room, so no one could disturb them. That idea was unrealistic, but Mesut liked the way the walls shrouded them in secrecy. He was a private person, this fit him like his boots.

“It is true,” Mesut replies, spooning whatever chocolate dessert Mathieu had ordered him into his mouth. Technically it wasn’t a part of his strict diet, but no one had to know. No one had to know about any of this.

Mathieu nods, running a hand through his hair, which was a mess as always. It seemed Flamini, along with a few others, were a part of the final generation of footballers where haircuts and clothing didn’t matter. There was a news article every time Giroud would so much as touch his hair. Mathieu wasn’t included in that scene. Mesut smiles, Mathieu doesn’t care, just like him.

“Shall we go home,” Mathieu concludes, picking up his jacket from where it hung across the back of his chair. Mesut nods in agreement. Home, it’s a strange concept, one he doesn’t expect to find in London. But maybe his mind can be changed, a dinner at a time.

They pay at the bar, dust pressing on Mesut’s fingers as he leans against it, a sign of times moving by too quickly, yet this bar remains firm in it’s being. Mesut can relate, after all, he can move to any city in the world, and still stay in control of who he is. He knew he was in control even as Mathieu shut him up, paying the whole bill himself without allowing Mesut to get a word in about the affair. Control.

Mathieu drives down dark roads, windscreen wipers moving erratically as rain lashes down, smashing into tiny fragments against cold glass. Mesut watches rain drops slide down his window, slow and elegant, quietly blurring together and it must’ve been later into the night than Mesut realised, with few cars in a city that is always alive. Mesut can feel the heartbeat of London, it just doesn’t mean his heart beats along with it.

Mathieu’s own SatNav leads them down old roads to new buidings, and it doesn’t take long for them to be lying in front of Mesut’s house, a building too big, too foreboding to contain a single person. It was nothing more than a status symbol, however Mesut isn’t too sure who he’s trying to impress currently. Mathieu doesn’t seem too affected, but then again, his house probably looks exactly the same. Their lives were ridiculous, Mesut barely knew it.

“Can I come in?” Mathieu asks. Mesut doesn’t have a single outdoors light, where Mathieu sits there is only darkness, leaving Mesut to only imagine what he looks like. Mesut swallows, the sound travelling in the enshrouding darkness, echoing against eardrums turning death from the shouts of thousands of fans and rival supporters. They always merged into one, Mesut could never pick out who was calling for him, if anyone was.

He nods,” Of course.” So, they walk in the rain between car and house, Mesut knows his hair is lying slick on his forehead, and rain is dripping into his eyes. He likes the feeling of being feral and wild that it brings, the world is his home, and this is a part of it. He’d like the rain ever since he was a kid.

They enter the house, Mesut’s fingers numb from the few seconds he spent unlocking the front door, rain soaking into his skin, burning him until he is frozen. God made nature not to be understood, but to be appreciated. And Mesut appreciates it all. Doesn’t mean he won’t curse as he enters the house, breathing into his hands to get some warmth back into them.

Mathieu, who is always an inch too close, picks up on every discomfort Mesut feels. He takes Mesut’s hands into his, rubbing on his fingers hard and fast, friction burning him in a different way. Sparks could fly if he just pressed a little harder. “I’m afraid the weather doesn’t get much better than this, here,” he says, his voice light and quiet. Mesut could feel how close together they were stood, in the same way he can feel where his teammates are on the pitch. It almost felt right.

In a different world, Mesut doesn’t have motion sensitive lights, he can’t see the way Mathieu licks his lips, he doesn’t notice the smallest of steps that Mathieu takes forwards. But he does see, and in both universes, he feels Mathieu fingers brush his hair away from his face. Mesut wants to say something, anything, but all his English has left him. German is his only friend and currently that was his worst enemy.

Mesut tilts his head back in a reflexive reaction to the way Mathieu pulls back on his hair, closing his eyes and wishing he was somewhere else, but still he doesn’t move. He looks down at Mathieu in the eye, swirling pools of brown, and then blinks.

Mathieu leans inwards, just as Mesut expected, lips pressed firmly onto his, too hot and too heavy, and fingers tightening on the back of his scalp. All oxygen leaves Mesut’s body, leaving him light headed, unable to think anymore as his brain shuts down at a record speed. Mesut is acting perfectly on impulse from that moment onwards, his brain no longer connecting to his mouth.

Or his hands, as he shoves Flamini backwards, so he clatters against the wall, and in his eyes Mesut could see unadulterated shock in place of quiet contempt.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” is what he wants to say, but English fails him just as German never has. It’s strange to feel as if his own language is foreign on his tongue, but every word felt like it was choking him. English had never made him feel this way. He repeats in English, but the words feel the same. Perhaps he was choking, on the presence of another man, still stood too close to him.

Mathieu looks up at him with those huge eyes, searching Mesut’s face for something, something which he won’t find. “I got the wrong message Mesut, I am sorry,” he whispers, lowering his gaze to the floor in real shame. Mesut has to fight to not forgive him where they stood.

“Keep my name out of your dirty mouth,” he’s not sure what language he is speaking, it could be Spanish for all he knows in that moment. His ears hiss white noise, and he wants to run away, to get away from all of this. This was never the plan.

Mathieu nods, looking much like a puppy being told off for pissing on the carpet. Ears pinned back and tail between his legs, he was the one who ran. Mathieu disappears into the dark rain. The sound of the engine pierces an empty night.

-

It was easy to avoid Mathieu when he was injured. They weren’t training together, they ate on different tables, avoided eye contact. Everything was going according to plan, because Mesut doesn’t need anyone, he’s happiest when he’s alone.

But four weeks later, surprisingly, Flamini is back in training, and there’s no avoiding him then. It doesn’t help that nobody has notice the rift between them, like ice frozen over the ocean. So, when everyone goes into pairs for stretches, it leaves the two of them, staring at each other whilst simultaneously pretending the other doesn’t exist. But Flamini, with his aged professionalism, breaks his confrontational stance and instead accepts his fate. Mesut bites back his breath.

“I don’t hate you,” Mesut says after minutes of uncomfortable silence. Mathieu is stood one inch too far. Mesut didn’t know what was wrong and what was right anymore.

Mathieu rolls his eyes, huffing lowly, but maybe he is just breathing heavily from when they ran around the field a couple of times earlier. “You have a weird way of showing that,” he replies, not looking at Mesut’s face, only their sponsored shoes.

And it’s not like Mesut to feel guilty. Maybe it’s because he’s never done anything that’s worth guilt. He’s given his family the houses they want, he’s never broken another players leg, and he’s always kept away from conflict. So why is it that he moves to London and all of that changes? Mesut has too much pride, he cannot swallow it all at once.

“We can forget about it, carry on and forget?” He’s never apologized to another person in his life before, today wasn’t going to be that day either. And really, should he even feel guilty, should he be the one to apologize. All he did was react, maybe irrationally, Mesut thought it was perfectly reasonable. Mathieu was the one _to act_. He was the one who moved without any contingent thinking behind it. Maybe it felt right to him, but for Mesut it was the most unnatural thing a man could do.

Mathieu sighs, he nods, he stretches. That’s right, they’re training, they aren’t in an impenetrable bubble, alone but not lonely, since they are together. Because for a few minutes that’s how Mesut felt. “I hope you can do that,” he replies, a small whisper of words, everything feels too close once again.

Mesut smiles and so does Mathieu, and maybe things can be okay.

Mesut feels sick to his stomach.

-

Any glitch in Mesut and Mathieu’s friendship really was forgotten about when they travelled away to Cardiff a few days later. Mathieu’s first game since injury, even if he was just starting on the bench, Mesut could feel the excitement in the way he tapped his finger on the windowsill, as they sat together on the coach. Mesut did have other friends in the team, but they’d all resigned themselves to allow him and Mathieu to be together. In all honesty, everything that had happened was the teams fault, not Mesut’s. But he’s forgotten that.

“Aaron is looking nervous,” Mesut mutters quietly, looking at his teammate a few rows down, pale faced and staring perfectly forwards, as if anything to the side of him would kill him. Maybe it would.

Mathieu smiles, looking away from the window with a knowing glint in delicate eyes. Mathieu was wise beyond his years, Mesut had sensed that the moment they met. “We’re playing his boyhood club. He’s probably in a state of purgatory, if he scores is it treachery, if he doesn’t is that worse? Football’s a funny world, your loyalties can lie nowhere sometimes.” Mesut didn’t understand everything Mathieu said, mentally comparting the words he doesn’t know, but he got the general idea. You can’t trust anyone.

“I’m sure Aaron will do the right thing,” Mesut responds, although that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t know Aaron well enough to be sure of anything, and he wasn’t sure what the right thing was anyway. Mathieu smiles, turns his gaze to look out the window, conversation forgotten. Mesut is sure he’ll do the right thing too.

-

The right thing happened to be Aaron scoring two goals, Mesut getting two assists, and Flamini scoring from one of his assists.

The 86th minute, Mathieu hadn’t even been on the pitch for ten minutes. But Mesut had felt his movement without even looking, like they were inexplicably linked by invisible threads, twitching under Mesut’s skin, but never threatening to break. The balls cut through three defenders like they weren’t there, but Mathieu was, Mathieu was there.

He dashed off celebrating, only for a second, until he caught himself, like realisation had hit him directly between the eyes. He whipped around, away from the fans and pointed down the pitch, pointed at Mesut. It was Mesut who had made that goal happen. Mathieu had happened to be there, it could’ve been anyone to actually score, that’s what people will say. Mesut knows it’s more than that.

He pulled Mesut into a hug of his own, beckoned him over with a grin that he could not fight. He pulled Mesut close and whispered, “Thank you, my friend,” although maybe it was louder than a whisper, but even so close together his voice was drowned out by the fans, that he sounded so quiet.

He ran his hands along Mesut’s jawline, if only for a second, because they are bundled into a hug with someone else. Mesut wasn’t too sure who, he was too busy thinking about the electric currents that had surged along his skin where Mathieu’s hands had been. He swallowed, blamed his beating heart on adrenalin, and jogged back to the starting positions. He had taken a second, just to look back at Mathieu, only to see him grin at him, which sent Mesut’s heart into a flurry again. He had tried his best not to look at Mathieu for the rest of the game. He had failed.

-

No one spoke as the boarded the bus back to London. A 6-3 defeat is always hard to swallow, realising the true quality of a team is another, bigger pill. Some teams are just better than yours, but no one likes to admit that. So together they sit and silently blame themselves. The players who didn’t even make it onto the pitch will blame themselves. We should’ve done better, we should’ve done better. But are we able to, that’s what Mesut wonders.

It was Mesut’s second defeat as an Arsenal player, both taking place in Manchester. Maybe that city was cursed for him, he quickly decides never to join City or United for these reasons, before contemplating his own impact on the game, what he could’ve done better. Wenger had told them not to worry, this was a blip in the grand scheme of the Premier League, they still stood top of the table. This season was still _their_ season.

But Mesut should’ve scored, and that was something he was able to do. He’d bottled a chance, had he bottled the game? One missed chance shouldn’t dictate his entire game, but fans don’t think that way. You’re never good enough until you’re gone. Mesut groans, runs his hands through his hair, tries tries tries, not to think.

“Six goals going into the wrong net isn’t your fault.” Mesut had looked up Purgatory, treachery and loyalties the evening after that match against Cardiff, had remembered the three words he’d repeated like a mantra in his head just as he had been drifting to sleep. Mesut was waiting for the day Mathieu would use them again, that day hadn’t come yet. “No one will blame you.”

“They will blame you?” Mesut asks, although word order and pronunciation makes it sound like a statement instead. He wishes he had never opened his damn mouth on his first training session.

But somehow, Mathieu understands what he is trying to say, looks out of a pitch black window, only motorways and streetlight keeping them company. Mesut watches as the yellow light diminishes into darkness across Mathieu’s face in a perfectly time rhythm. All light had to be taken away, all winning streaks had to end.

“Anyone who can tackle will be blamed, not you,” Mathieu replies. He sounds tired, on closer inspection he looks it too, dark circles under red eyes, a yawn he covers under his hand. Suddenly, Mesut feels tired too.

“Maybe I should learn to tackle.”

This made Mathieu chuckle slightly, a small suggestion that the biggest of defeats does not end lives, and football doesn’t dictate the world. “You play the most beautiful football in the world. Leave the dirty tackling to me,” Mathieu suggests. Mesut forgets, in these moment of quiet conversation, the player Mathieu is. The type full of passion, the type that bleeds Arsenal. Maybe that could be Mesut one day too.

These thoughts certainly weren’t part of his plan.

But now they had a partnership, where Mesut is allowed to create all the chances he can, and Mathieu will have his back the entire time. The threads that attached them were getting thicker, not breaking apart.

“I like that,” Mesut mumbled, and Mathieu throws him a glance, a sparkle in his eye that says _thank you._ The gratification hits closer to home than anything else. Scoring in front of the fans held a feeling beyond any other, but the feeling of outright happiness, whilst on a cramped coach after a 6-3 loss to Manchester City, well the two came close.

-

The Christmas party came soon after that scathing defeat. But hey, they were still top of the table, they had the means to celebrate something. It gave everyone a chance to forget about the defeat, to stop blaming themselves, to remember they’re a team and football isn’t everything in life.

Mesut didn’t drink, haram and all that, but he was happy to watch his teammates make fools of themselves, passively sitting to the side of the room and simply observing. He’d always been one to watch and not specifically join in. If someone spoke to him, he would speak back, that was the extent he would go to. Currently no one was talking to him.

The room was loud with music and people, both simultaneously drowning the other out. If he wanted to, Mesut could try and pick out pieces of conversation that were happening around him, but that gave him headaches as people spoke with greater accents and less English the more drunk they got. The music was easy to listen to, Mesut drumming his fingers on a table, slightly out of time, he could barely hear himself anyway, only just about feel it.

Of course, he wasn’t left alone just like that. Mesut’s teammates from Die Mannschaft dragged him out from the shadows, spoke to him in slurred German for once, because tonight they could relax, the English only rule no longer necessary, much to Mesut’s relief. Although they speak of nothing coherent, Per bringing out some signature ‘Dad dancing’ instead, much to the amusement of everyone else.

Another point, Olivier sauntered over, speaking broken English and thanking Mesut for all the assists he brought, helping them to win the league. Mesut was beginning to understand that the French players didn’t have quite the same boundaries compared to everyone else. Maybe that would explain Mathieu’s forgotten actions those months ago. But Oli easily slung a heavy arm over Mesut’s shoulders, asked him if his hair still looks good, and Mesut could smell the alcohol on his breath, so all he did was nod.

That seemed to satisfy Oli though, and he wandered off without a second thought, much to Mesut’s relief. His skin-tight Captain America costume didn’t leave much to the imagination. Not that Mesut was imaging anything anyway.

Mesut had changed out of his costume fairly early on, when he’d began to feel lightheaded from the heat, and the weight of it only adding to that. People had called him a buzzkill, and Mesut could only assume that was a bad thing.

Truly however, Mesut didn’t feel the need to be there. Yes, it was a bonding activity more than anything, Mesut hadn’t been around for the preseason tour, he didn’t really know his teammates. And as much fun as it is to watch Santi fall over whilst keeping his grin, he wouldn’t be able to tell you anything new about his colleagues.

Mesut left the party early. Hell, he doesn’t even celebrate Christmas, there’s really was no reason for him to be there. Naturally however, he spotted Mathieu leaning out a window as he made his way along the hallway. Probably getting air. It never took long for one to find the other.

Mesut hadn’t realised how stifling hot it was until he had left the room. Now he was out, he remembered what it was like to breathe thin air, to feel his feet anchored to the ground. He didn’t move for a few moments, just looked on.

Earlier that day they had sung Christmas songs with some fans. Mesut had been the one to put his arm over Mathieu’s shoulders, the one to grin and sway side to side. Was he giving off the wrong impression then, Mesut thought not. Still, Mathieu did not withdraw himself from the window and Mesut did not move.

And time did not move either, given that time is a human concept, and seconds whittling away meant nothing. The night stayed as night, the sun was long gone. In a long dark corridor, in which stood one person and two people, time stayed the same. That’s until Mesut coughed, and it simply became two people, and every moment that passed was another moment leading up to death.

Mathieu looks at him with this lop-sided smile, as if he’s genuinely happy to see Mesut. In the shadows, Mesut was sure he looked like a ghost, unrecognisable to most. Mathieu isn’t _most._ “How long were you stood there?” He asks, not as drunk as the others. Mesut silently counts his steps, _eins, zwei, drei, vier, f _ünf,_ sechs, seiben_ , until he’s close to Mathieu. A safe distance, but close.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mesut replies, because the world moves so fast, yet everyday feels so painstakingly slow. So, yes, it doesn’t matter whether it was minutes or hours or seconds. It was a long enough time.

“Hmm,” Mathieu mumbled, as if in agreement. It was funny how human beings had all these words, and all these languages, yet a simple noise of no real meaning explains everything so much more. Perhaps people were more primitive than they wanted to believe, or maybe it’s truly smart that facial expressions and sounds can break language barriers so easily.

Mathieu looks back out the window, and Mesut joins him, seeing ‘news reporters’ piled outside, small and unknowing of who is only a couple of levels above. Secretive and hidden, directly in plain sight, Mesut felt power in knowing he could watch them and they had no clue. In reality, someone is always watching you, even when you feel like you are alone. Mesut turns and finds Mathieu already looking at him. Always watching. “How come you’re not back with everyone else?”

Mesut tries to remember his answer to that. He was going home, that’s why. “I’m going home.” They were stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at each other, and in the dark, it was hard to distinguish anything of Mathieu’s face, a shadow cascading over him. It felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. They weren’t stood a safe distance anymore.

“You can stay a little longer, surely?” Mesut supposed it was still early. The air outside was crisp, cutting across exposed skin like razors. He pulled his hood up, creating a barrier between him and Mathieu. When he took a breath, he could feel his throat being sliced open. Soon he might be spitting blood. The winters in Madrid were warmer.

Mesut pulled himself out from the window, reporters below him freezing for a meaningless article. If the work he did was pointless in a wider society, that of a reporter must be the lowest of all jobs. No wonder they stood like zombies, begging for someone to fuck up so they could finally eat them alive. Mesut prayed that someone wouldn’t be him. He wasn’t going to mess up now, tonight.

Mesut shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them up. No mistakes this time. “I am not sure I belong here.” He sighed. Mesut always knew it would be hard, moving from Real Madrid to Arsenal. Assisting a player like Ronaldo was easy, Mesut would kick the ball to him and he would score. It was as easy as that.

He didn’t have the same ease here, he was working harder than ever. He know that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it was leaving Mesut bruised and bloody, his shin pads don’t protect him the way they used to. It sends his head whirling sometimes, the game is so passionate on the pitch. Arsenal played good football, he knew that when he joined, what he didn’t realise was not every team respected that, everything was there to be destroyed.

Mesut wasn’t sure if his thoughts even made sense. What he did know was things were different, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“You are still new here, still adjusting, you’ll make this place into a home,” Mathieu responds, after a few seconds of blinking, mulling over his thoughts because maybe he doesn’t understand Mesut in the way he once believed.

Mesut smiles though, perhaps because he has someone believing in him, him and everything he does. Does it make Mesut selfish if that isn’t enough? “Nowhere has been my home since I left home.” Mathieu leans his head against the wall, watching Mesut through low eyelids, as if contemplating. They stood either side of the window, a slither of light separating them, pushing them further into different areas of darkness. Separate, but the same.

“Have you ever been in love?” Mathieu asks, perfectly out of the blue, turning Mesut beautifully red. It wasn’t the type of question Mesut had been asked before, between interviews and acquaintances, it was of no relevance to anyone.

It mattered to Mathieu though.

Mesut shook his head, “Football is all that matters in life.” Not true. But Mesut can pretend to believe the words he breathes, almost silkily in the winter air. He’d been trained to believe that his entire life, he wasn’t going to break away from his mandate so quickly.

“Oh Mesut, there is so much more to life than that,” Mathieu murmurs. He places his hand on the windowsill, and Mesut tracks his movements, as he moves from dark to light. Mesut can see the veins in his hands, the nervous twitch of his middle finger. Mesut can see it all, the light drawing him in like a moth. He could come closer, but his feet are cinderblocks and he won’t move an inch. “We are so insignificant in the world, and footballs insignificance is so much more apparent in the bigger picture that makes up the entire world. We live to live, every day, not just the day’s that we play. Do you know what I mean?”

No.

“Yes,” Mesut replies. He was a useless figure who had gained importance, he shouldn’t waste his breath on anything other than himself, he should fall in love and forget the world. Blood beat through both of them, along the veins in their hands. They were all the same and nothing mattered. Mesut could understand that.

Mathieu blinks, licks his lips, a faint smile trailing along them and no, Mesut isn’t watching his lips with sincere concentration, he’s just tracking every movement he makes in the hope that would quell his beating heart. “Good, so just stay a while.” Mesut heard emphasis on the word stay, new it meant a lot more than just there and then, at a Christmas party. Stay forever, if you can, was what Mathieu was asking. But the answer to that could never be yes.  

“Yes,” Mesut repeats, because it’s easy that way, to not throw away your teammates half a season in, to make them happy. And Mathieu’s smile flashes bright as he steps fully into the light, illuminating his skin an artificial golden colour, showing the rosiness in his cheek that confirms he had been drinking, but not quite drunk. Mesut could deal with that.

Mathieu picks up Mesut’s hand into his, his palms soft and slightly sticky, and they look each other in the eye, if only for a second of undeniable tension where Mesut would rather fall through the floor than feel. But then Mathieu laughs, light, easy and Mesut follows suit. He could do this. He could stay.

No.

-

Mesut had always been competitive, of course. You can’t make it as a footballer unless you’re competitive. So that’s why every loss he experienced felt like his heart was being torn from his body, string by string, in the most tortuous fashion possibly. Every goal scored past his goal felt like another slash. Tonight, he’d received 5 scars in the city of Liverpool. He could feel himself bleeding out from where he lay on his bed in his hotel room, the ceiling drifting in and out of focus, the sheets suffocating him from where they covered his body.

He hasn’t felt this alone in so long. His ears rung with the lack of anyone’s voice speaking to him. No one had spoken in the dressing room, on the way to the hotel. No one ate afterwards, they kept their eyes to the ground and walked back to their own rooms alone. They weren’t top of the table this time, they had nothing to fall back on now.

Mesut couldn’t sleep, he felt too hot, and then he was shivering, a chill creeping over his body, freezing his bones that were too weak to carry his body. He used to always be in charge, of a game, of his body, of everything. Things had changed, and perhaps it was a challenge, but Mesut felt uncomfortable in every movement he made, every word he spoke. Nothing felt good.

He heard his phone ring when the sun had set, but the days were getting longer now, so it was probably later than Mesut would’ve realised. The only time that mattered was the 90 minutes, and now that was over he was a useless sack of flesh, like everyone else in the world. Mesut debated answering for a few moments, knowing exactly who it would be, but having no clue what they had to say. Mesut wanted to know though, in fact he needed to know what they were going to say.

“Hi,” Mesut croaked, still laying deep beneath a plain white duvet that smelt of basic brand detergent. He didn’t deserve much more than that.

“Are you alright?” Mathieu asks. Left in London, in the comfort of his home, where he can still feel the same waves of humiliation, the same pain, maybe even worse than Mesut did.

Mesut was tired of pain.

He sighed, rolling on his side, trying to find a semblance of normality, “I’m just tired. Of everything, of football, maybe.” It wasn’t true, if he was tired of football, this loss wouldn’t affect him the way it was. But it did hurt, it was killing him from his heart to his skin, and that proved he wasn’t done with football yet, and he wouldn’t be for a long time still.

Mathieu sighed, Mesut could imagine how he looked, disappointed, smile gone and eyes dull. The image is clear in Mesut’s mind, he could paint it right there if he had the means. Thankfully he didn’t. “I shouldn’t have got that red, I should’ve been available to play.”

The red card. Red like blood, the red of Arsenal, red of Liverpool, red of the anger that flowed through the words of every supporter. A red, red world, Mesut remembers when his world was _Los Blancos_ and his only pain came in blue and he never once blamed himself for that. Now the tv tells him he’s not cut out for the Premier League, and tonight he feels it, feels it poisoning his red blood.

“Which goal would you have stopped?” Mesut asks instead, because it’s fruitless to believe one player would’ve changed the score line. They had all been not good enough, the best player in the world playing wouldn’t have changed much.

Mesut couldn’t hear anything but the breathing of Mathieu, heavy in the ever-increasing silence. It was proof that they were alive, they were human and they make more mistakes than they can fix sometimes. One day, Mesut would make this right, tonight everything felt wrong. He could barely feel himself in his own body anymore, and it felt like he wasn’t seeing even with his eyes wide open. The world was too big, too expansive for Mesut to comprehend. Football had always been the same, but now even that was becoming too much.

“Which goal _should_ you have stopped?” Mathieu flings back like a parasite, sitting under his skin, leeching him of his hope. It latches on Mesut’s throat, numbing his vocal chords, leaving him speechless. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Usually he received the spiel of ‘you tried your best and that’s what matters.’ Perhaps tonight he didn’t try his best, at least not for Mathieu. That hurts.

Mesut swallows his tongue, tries to not to be audibly suffering from a statement which he didn’t think would sting so much. Mesut would remember to watch what he says, starting now. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I should sleep.” He could barely speak once again, the weight of the loss suddenly resting on his shoulders and his alone. _What should he have done?_ So much better, so much fucking better.

It was too late.

“Goodnight Mesut, I’ll see you in training.”

The soft whine of a hung-up phone echoes in Mesut’s ears long after he put his phone down. A quiet hum as a constant reminder that he wasn’t good enough. And for once that wasn’t a challenge so he can strive to be better. It was the sublime truth, he’ll never be adequate. He’ll never be the player he’s supposed to be.

Mesut could hardly feel his heart beat in his chest.

-

“Do you hate me?” The crowds had diminished, the smug smiles of Bayern players had left along with them. (Mesut didn’t hate the players, most of them were his teammates on the national side. But club loyalties and national pride go fuzzy in certain moments. So, fuck Bayern.) The day had flickered into night and Mathieu was waiting for Mesut, as he always does. In theory, that must mean he doesn’t hate Mesut. But Mesut stopped thinking rationally when Bayern had started tripling the shots of Arsenal.

It’s not easy being battered, broken. When the final question is ‘how did Bayern not score more?’ And the answer to that question isn’t due to a great defence or goalkeeping. Sheer luck and nothing more, that’s not the way a team should be portrayed, not one of Arsenal’s calibre.

It’s all red again, everything that hurts is red.

But a score line can only cause so much pain, and Mesut had experience worst in his months in England. Damage control had worked for once, only two cuts to his skin and they were already healing. Mesut wasn’t falling, he hadn’t disappeared into a state of undisguised disappointment. No, he was sad, sad because his friend once again proved he isn’t good enough. Can’t score a penalty, can’t track back, ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’ bangs around his head.

Mesut can’t handle the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore. Every mistake was his mistake and maybe it was getting enough to be hated. He used to hear Ronaldo repeating like a prayer ‘the haters make me stronger,’ but now Mesut only has himself, and those aren’t the types of prayers he says.

Mathieu looked up from where he was tying his shoe for maybe the fifth time, confusion a stain on his face, “What?” he asks, but there’s no venom behind his words this time, no patronising, no anger. Mesut had trained himself to act the same on and off the pitch. He was too cool, too sharp, and sometimes a little uncaring, perhaps. Mathieu didn’t treat it the same way, everything cumulated into his tackles and passes, every sour emotion was his football. Joy was a second-hand feeling to the over encompassed passion that beats in his heart. Mesut is only beginning to understand what that’s like.

“I should have scored the penalty and I shouldn’t be so er, _selbstzufrieden_ um, so casual,” It was times like these, when Mesut’s own emotions were eluding him that his English did as well. He hates the way he knows exactly what he wants to say, but just can’t. He hates the way he knows what he wants to do, but _just can’t_. “And after Liverpool, and if I’m not good enough or you don’t like me, you can say.” Mesut sighed as words had tripped over his own breath in the race to escape his mouth. It’s probably the fastest he’s spoken in English so far. Sadly, that made him feel no better.

Mathieu crosses the space between them. Four benches between them, it’s only a few steps, but they seem to take an age, until he’s sat with Mesut, his side pressed to Mesut, his hand on Mesut’s knee. Mesut feels like he’s back on the pitch, the way his heart bangs in his chest.

“Oh Mesut, I could never hate you.” Mesut wishes he was lying on the beach, moonlight the only thing he can see. And the sand clings to his body in tiny granules as the sea washes over his toes. He wishes he could just lie forever as the sea rising over his calves and chest and head. He wishes he could disappear into oblivion, the moon distorted under ocean waves as he breathes in both the sky and the sea. Drowning was far more tranquil when you simply let it take you, the entirety of the ocean isn’t a battle one can win.

Alas, the only thing Mesut can drown in are Mathieu’s brown eyes.

“You could do a lot worse than not mark Robben, and I would never feel an inch of dislike,” Mathieu speaks so softly, his heart permanently sewn onto his sleeve, the threads intertwining with heartstrings. He’s always the most real version of himself, it’s no wonder his presence hurts sometimes. “I blame others more than myself, you blame yourself more than others. What I say means nothing.” He looks disheartened himself, in realising the internal struggle he has caused Mesut in the past few days, he sees himself as the sole reason for that. Mathieu is wrong in what he says, he looks to himself as the responsibility more often than he may think. Just now is an example.

“Your words are everything to me.” Mesut wonders what his voice sounds like sometimes, his real voice. Because in his mind he is controlled and collected, but reality can be so different to the way one tries to perceive it. No matter how open minded you are, life is lived through two eyes and one mind, and every brain feels everything differently. So, to Mesut, he is taking a measured and balanced approach, but how is he acting in Mathieu’s perspective, he will never know.

Mathieu sighs, smiles, looks away. “The others will be waiting. We should go.” Mesut wondered what that meant, and for once not literally. Mathieu didn’t avoid much, but he was definitely avoiding that. Mesut nods, the room seeming so much bigger now it’s empty, his bench seeming so much smaller with two people in it. A contrasting feeling between claustrophobia and agoraphobia, everything ahead too big and too wide, and everything around him too close, too hot. Mesut is unsure which he prefers, still is when Mathieu stands up first without a word, leaving Mesut cold. Leaving Mesut.

They don’t speak for the bus journey, Mathieu falls asleep and Mesut watches him, mind completely blank.


	2. Pt.II

“You are an Arsenal fan, really?”

Mathieu chuckles softly. It’s the first time he’s smiled since arriving on Mesut’s doorstep. “Nah, I prefer United actually,” he replies, looking up at Mesut from where his head lay in Mesut’s lap. Mesut isn’t sure how they ended up like this, the Tv humming nonsense in the background, the light outside disappearing. Shadows were being cast at all angles, threatening to engulf them, “I bleed and breathe red, London red, nothing else.”

“But you left, why would you leave?” At one-point Mesut had searched up Mathieu. He didn’t even realise the man had played at Arsenal before, Mesut had assumed Mathieu had been around for a while, the way he knew his way around and got on with the players and all that. He realised in fact that he didn’t know a lot about Mathieu, and they didn’t speak about it either and it didn’t matter. Should it matter?

Mathieu sighs, laces his fingers over his stomach, his Arsenal shirt still plastered to his skin, like a permanent tattoo. It wasn’t always that way. “I couldn’t live at this club forever, I wanted to experience the world. I am sure you understand that,” Mesut nods, he does understand that. The difference is that he doesn’t feel that same club loyalty. He’s a player who wants to play, is desperate to win, he feels the needs to win itch in his fingertips and beat in his heart. He doesn’t care what team he is winning for, as long as he can make it happen. “What about you, leaving one of the best teams in the world for a team that hasn’t won a trophy in 9 years. A lot of people won’t understand that.”

Mesut blinks, rests his arm on Mathieu’s chest and likes the way it warms his skin. “But you understand. The Premier League is a challenge I wanted. Wenger a manager I wanted to work with. And I wanted to live in London too. I did not think about trophies when I left, just myself.” Mathieu nods, understands, just as Mesut expected.

“And when you got here did you expect to watch as your team loses 6-0 to Chelsea?” They hadn’t brought up that small detail until now, Mesut allowed Mathieu to forget about it, just for a while. Mesut had watched from home as the team collapsed. He hadn’t felt a lot, he had no way of stopping this defeat. It left him hollow instead of hurting. No scars, but he wasn’t left without a few bruises. The disappointment that was written so clearly on Mathieu’s face caused most of those blemishes, blossoming around his heart.

Mesut flicked the channel over just as Match of the Day got onto that exact game. No need to relive it, they didn’t have to think about it anymore. “There’s no such thing as a perfect season. Every team loses.”

“Arsenal went invincible once.”

“Have _you_ ever been in love?” Mesut asks suddenly, cutting off what Mathieu was saying. Because it had been on his mind since Christmas and he still remembers the night after Norwich, pretends not to, but memories are impossible to erase. And now was as good a time as ever, with Mathieu in his lap and no one else around. All pressure had been diminished for a few moments, they were alone, completely alone. Nothing could go wrong this time.

“Love doesn’t last forever, I discovered that,” Mathieu says, a solemn tone in an already downtrodden voice. Mesut should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“Is that why you left?” Mathieu sighs, rubs his hands along his face, his face that Mesut can see so clearly. Every freckle, Mesut could see it all. “My life has gone exactly the way I dreamed it could. Love was never a part of those dreams. Infiltrated them for a while, yes, but the world changes every day Mesut. Nothing lasts.”

Mesut can feel Mathieu’s heartbeat from where his arm lies across him. It beats hard and fast, strong just like him. Mathieu can act like it’s not true, but Mesut knows his heart controls him. Knows all he can feel is his lungs fill with air and his blood pump in his veins. But Mesut himself can feel a pulse in his brain, a headache that doesn’t go away, he’s always thinking. They’re different, they’re the same. They work well together, anyone could see that.

“What’s it like?” Mathieu moved his hand to rest on Mesut’s arm, fingers tapping mindlessly on his skin. Mesut can feel his blood heat up each time a finger rests on his skin, his whole body feeling a shade warmer, looking a shade of red. Red was becoming a plague to him.

“What is love like?” Mathieu smiles, in a nostalgic way, remembering a past that maybe he doesn’t think about that often anymore. “It’s like your whole body is on fire. Nothing else in the world matters and the universe is yours for the taking. It takes your breath away Mesut, it really does.”

He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to admit such a thing to himself, but Mesut believed he knew that exact feeling. And he knew it too often too recently.

That scared Mesut to death.

Mesut stared at the tv, catching the occasional word and phrase, his mind suddenly blurry. Every event leading up to this point could have been avoided, he should have evaded Mathieu’s presence and easy words and complicated mind. Mesut bites his tongue in an attempt to keep himself in reality, when he would rather be anywhere else. This was not the plan.

“But things end Mes. Everything has a finish.” He looks tired, lying across Mesut. And a part of Mesut wants to extract his whole body, leave before burn marks are scorched along his skin. But the other part knows that _this_ isn’t quite the end. And then there’s the conscious side of his brain, which is skipping through the two options at an electric pace, unable to make a decision. On the pitch, he can decisions in seconds, but now he’s gazing down at Mathieu with his heart in his ears and his mind drawing a complete blank. What was right, what was wrong, and what does this mean for him?

He sucks in a breath and sits still, like a stature, but his body isn’t cold like one. The furthest from that in fact. He doesn’t speak so Mathieu fills the quiet that was reigning on them, constantly a presence that blocks a void from forming. It was what Mesut needed, to stop him thinking, to stop him feeling. To focus on someone other than himself. That’s what he wanted, too.

“It doesn’t mean you should give up on love. I’ll never give up.”

Mesut swallows, closes his eyes, opens them again, blinks a few times. When he speaks his voice sounds distant, like it isn’t his anymore. A foreigner inside his own body, he’d never been so detached from the land he lived upon. “I think I know those feelings. Better than I realised.”

His nails were digging into Mathieu’s ribcage. He hadn’t realised until he forced himself to relax, his hand going slack from where it’d tried to find some sort of grip. On reality, on Mathieu, on both. And Mathieu hadn’t said a thing, hadn’t flinched an inch.

He sat up suddenly, but slowly. Contradictory, counteracting terms, they describe Mathieu perfectly.

Mathieu licks his lips and Mesut watches, not sure where else to look, not sure what else to do. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. And Mathieu is close, his body sat inches away, and Mesut is cold without their bodies touching, and Mesut wants. He wants he wants he wants.  

“I hope you understand this,” Mesut whispers, his breath shallow, his heart unbearable and his lips on fire as they press onto Mathieu’s **.** It’s like nothing he’s ever known, a total collapse of his inner morals for something which he’s been subconsciously screaming for, for months. It’s as if his brain has flipped, and his conscious has swapped places with his innate desires, the ones he’s supposed to keep hidden. The ones he’s been taught to hate. And the back of his mind is a scramble of incomprehensible caterwauling. That this _is wrong_. Except, for the first time ever, Mesut is able to completely disregard it. Detached from himself, a whole other world in front of him. Literally and figuratively.

Mathieu is so gentle, so slow even as he parts his lips, his thumb rubbing across Mesut’s arm to let him know that this is okay, and he’s okay. Mesut can feel his breath being taken away, stolen from him and his head is so light. He can feel himself floating away, like a balloon into the heavens.

Would he make it into heaven now?

He chokes and pulls backwards suddenly, as if the world hits him, and the spell that had cursed him was ripped away. His skin runs cold and if he couldn’t breathe before he definitely can’t now.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, fuck I,” Mesut mumbles, his tongue working on autopilot, and his mouth still hot. He can still feel Mathieu on his lips, like a poison. It’s going to be the death of him.

But Mathieu smiles, and he still has his hand on Mesut’s arm, the feeling sending electric currents across his skin. He wishes he could turn his body off, just for a second. “Mes, hey, you’re okay,” Mathieu whispers, but Mesut looks anywhere but Mathieu. He stares at the Tv, but can’t really see it. His chest rises and falls at an exaggerated pace.

“Mesut, look at me,” and he doesn’t want to, but Mathieu has his hands either side of Mesut’s face, pulling him round, and Mesut swallows hard, looks Mathieu in the eye. It’s everything Mesut wants to see and that makes it even worse. “I understand Mes, you’re alright.”

Mathieu’s thumbs run along Mesut’s jawline, and he just wants to sink into the touch, sink into everything Mathieu has to offer. But his stomach feels sick at that same thought. His heart is torn in two, and Mesut doesn’t have the tools to stitch it back together. “I, I don’t know. I don’t um-“

Mathieu is efficient in cutting him off before he starts. He’s brain is a mess and he can’t articulate anything and he wants to go back to Madrid, where he didn’t feel a thing. “We can’t forget this Mesut, not this time. Though I’m sure neither of us really ‘forgot’ last time,” he murmured, hands dropping to Mesut’s shoulders, and Mesut keeps his eyes on Mathieu. He can’t seem to make himself look away. He knows it’s been like this a long time. Maybe Mesut doesn’t know himself as well as he believed.

Mesut breathes in and out, runs his tongue across his lips, the taste of Mathieu seeping into his taste buds. What’s the worst that can happen? A million things cascade into Mesut’s mind, and he swallows and gazes and thinks _fuck it_. However, his mouth can’t quite co-ordinate with his thoughts, and he chokes on everything he wants to say when he opens his mouth. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but they don’t want to come. They won’t come.

They sit in silent for a while. Mesut doesn’t know how long, but the Tv was showing an El Clasico Mesut had played in. They’d lost 5-0 that night. A brutal irony. Mesut had thought nothing could be worse than that. He hadn’t known the true cruelty of football then. Still, Mesut doesn’t look once at the Tv screen, doesn’t give a single glance to that moment in his life. The moment he was living right then seemed to much more important. It’s the first time he’s felt anything is more important than football.

Mathieu sighs, picks up Mesut’s hands in his, squeezes them tight, drops them, stands up. Mesut follows every single movement with his eyes, doesn’t dare take his gaze anywhere else. Nothing seems as important as Mathieu, nothing matters as much as he does. Everything else is irrelevant, it’s just them and them alone and god fucking damn it Mesut wishes he could just say that. Just speak his mind for once in his life.

“I’ll leave you alone to think, yeh?” Mathieu says, looking down at where Mesut sits, perfectly still, “I’ll see you around.” Mesut closes his eyes as Mathieu leans over, presses his lips so delicately to Mesut’s forehead. Mesut could feel Mathieu’s breath hot on his skin and, he could get used to this. To every part of it.

Mathieu rocks back and Mesut finally speaks, his voice rough, scratching at his throat, “Stay safe.” Emphasis on the stay.

Mathieu had already left.

Mesut didn't sleep that night.

-

It took a few weeks for Mesut to start training with the rest of the team again. Those few weeks felt like an age, especially when his mind was weighed down with so many other invariables. This was becoming just as much a mental recovery as a physical one. Mesut struggled to keep his mind on the game, on himself. But he was back to training now, that was something.

He kicked a ball around between him and Ramsey. They’d both been injured at around the same times, had done their recovery together. Mesut wouldn’t necessarily call them friends, Ramsey was too similar to himself. A little quiet, keeps to himself, and so they didn’t talk a lot when together. But there was mutual respect between the two of them nonetheless, and an understanding. A silence between them wasn’t awkward, it felt completely natural in fact. And that’s why they worked.

Mesut also finds it funny to fuck around with him in training sometimes.

Today however, Ramsey noticed something slightly wrong with Mesut. He seemed to be good at that, observing, quietly knowing every player. And Mesut wasn’t an escapee to that. “You alright mate? Seem a little off,” he calls over.

He wasn’t wrong, Mesut still felt a little stiff, not quite up to full match fitness. He still had to do a test to see if he’s fit to play tomorrow. He prays he is, he’s sick of sitting on the side-lines. Especially with the recent disappointing run, Mesut was desperate to get on the pitch, to try and be the difference. But that wasn’t the real problem.

Mesut shrugs, kicks the ball. He’s missed the feeling of it at his feet, he misses the atmosphere of a game even more. “Yeah, I’m alright, yeah.” He knows it’s not the most convincing answer, but it’s the best he can give. That’s the one thing about Ramsey, he doesn’t feel the need to act hopelessly optimistic all the time with him. It was refreshing. Mesut knows that players need optimism as motivation, but that wasn’t how Mesut worked. It was nice that someone else could comprehend that as well.

Ramsey nods, kicks the ball away, as they’re being put into teams for a 6-a-side. Mesut loves what he does, but it can be repetitive sometimes. “Okay, but if it’s an injury thing you should see the physio, don’t push yourself too far too fast.” Mesut wishes it was an injury thing. Still, he thanks Ramsey for the advice, is given a different colour bib to him, and moves on.

“You okay?” A different voice asks, one he doesn’t want to hear. Or does, Mesut isn’t quite sure. “We haven’t spoken since, ya know,” he adds, and Mesut swallows, hoping no one else can hear, even though nothing incriminating is being said. It’s the euphemisms behind the words, the ones only him and Mathieu understand, and they hold so many consequences. That’s what scares Mesut the most, there are so many reactions to his actions now. He has teammates and fans and family, and Mesut has a dark feeling shrouding his entire mind that none of those sets of people will except, will even tolerate this.

“Yeah, I um, I gotta go see the um physio, and then I have my fitness test but um,” Mesut knows he should be focusing on training, but his head is dizzy for all the wrong reasons, “We can talk erm afterwards, I guess, if you want.” He keeps his voice low, the shrill of a whistle cutting through, breaking Mesut out of his stammering mess. Mathieu still smiles, and Mesut can’t blame training for the way his heart beats.

“I’ll see you there,” Mesut hears the reply as he’s running off, knowing he can’t take a moment out of training if he does want to play tomorrow. He didn’t need to hear it however, he was expecting nothing less from Mathieu.

-

Mesut licks his lips and ducks his head down when he sees Mathieu leant on his car, waiting for him to finally get out. Gravel crunches under his feet and he rubs a hand across his face, trying to recover the semblance of feeling that he is exactly where he believes to be. The whole area smells of freshly cut grass, always has and probably always will. That’ll stay the same. Whatever happens, Mesut will have the freshly cut grass.

Mesut lifts his head once he reaches his car, looks at Mathieu who is already looking at him. Almost perfectly in sync, it felt too natural. The air was warming up as summer finally begins to arrive, trees sprouting in all shades of bright green, prim flowers neatly planted in hedgerows along the car park. Everything about Arsenal was pristine, except Mathieu’s messy hair and the small patch of dirt clinging to his elbow still. Later that day they’d be travelling 3hrs to Hull. Right then Mesut wanted nothing more than to stay at home.

What a contradictory life he was living.

“How are you feeling?” Mathieu asks, ducking his head as he sits down in Mesut’s car, just as Mesut does the same.

Mesut shrugs, “Looks like I’m playing tomorrow,” he says, nonchalantly, as always. Mesut is excited and nervous, and energy hits him in tsunami waves every so often. But he has to keep calm to play a good game, it was no use getting worked up.

Mathieu grins, congratulates him, pats Mesut’s knee whilst he drives. Anyone else and the action means nothing, but it’s not anyone and Mesut can feel heat rush to his knee, so he tightens his grip on the steering wheel in his best attempts not to visibly react. But Mathieu misses nothing, he sees things even Mesut cannot see sometimes. Occasionally Mesut must wonder if he is even human, or something otherworldly, with a little more brain, matched with a little more beauty.

“Not quite what I was meaning however,” Mathieu adds, and Mesut digs his nails into the wheel, digging up the leather with the pressure.

There’s something about journeys that make it easier to admit things. As if having no fixed place at that current moment means everything can be left behind as the car moves away. It feels as though everything can be dumped out the window if it’s toxic, or kept if it’s safe. Mesut can always drive a different way, in a different car. He can’t so easily have a different house, and it’s harder to forget when a sofa, a wall, a carpet can all remind you of that same moment.

The car keeps moving, green trees all becoming one blur, and Mesut finally finds his voice.

“I think I love you.” There’s a heartbeat in his fingers. He could crash the car if he has to.

“Ah,” Mathieu remarks, shock evident in his voice, “I- okay.”

“Or not, I um, I don’t know. I just erm, I shouldn’t have said anything, ah shit, I’m sorry I-“ The car came to a halt at some roadworks, because it’s England and you can’t drive a couple hundred meters without encountering roadworks of some description. And it means nothing can distract Mesut now, not the scenery or the methodological push-pull of driving a car. It was him, Mathieu and the soft thrum of the engine.

“It’s okay Mes, I just um,” It’s the first time Mathieu hasn’t got the right words and that makes Mesut discernibly uncomfortable. For Mathieu was always the one with something to say and Mesut always the one to respond. But now Mesut was leading the conversation, that felt so strange to him on so many different fronts. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold it. Mathieu always carried him with his seemingly perfect English and perfect smile and perfect, Mesut had just ruined that. Perfect.

They inch forwards in the car, rolling along the road, Mesut could walk home faster at the rate they were going. He didn’t speak again, hoping if it stayed silent long enough, they can pretend Mesut never spoke in the first place. A quiet ride back home, it wasn’t too hard to believe. Mesut spares a few glances towards Mathieu, who worries his lip between his teeth, turning his bottom lip a darker shade of pink that has Mesut licking his own. So, he stares straight ahead into the back window of the car in front instead.

“Hey Mes, can you er,” Mathieu pauses to clear his throat, which had gone hoarse, “Can you pull into the layby up ahead?” Mesut could see the temporary traffic lights flash- _green, yellow, red._ They were only a few minutes away from driving free. So naturally, Mesut nodded and did exactly what Mathieu told him. Because when has he ever done anything differently?

Mesut pulled in, flicking his own engine off so they are left in true silence. He can’t see the road and he can’t hear anything apart from the click of a seatbelt being unbuckled. Mesut turns to face Mathieu, is about to ask for forgiveness again, and isn’t given the chance.

Mathieu’s mouth is desperate on Mesut’s in a way he has never experienced. He licks across Mesut’s slightly parted lips and his fingers pull at Mesut’s hair and it’s as if he’s on the edge of death and this his last chance. He kisses with all the need and want of a man living everyday as if it’s his last. It gives Mesut the ability to breathe as if it’s his first day on the planet, the air fresh and wild. The world beautiful and insane. Mathieu tastes of mint.

Mathieu pulls away, breathless and flushing, but Mesut knows he’s worst off. “I know I love you,” Mathieu whispers, but it sounds so insurmountable to Mesut’s ears, as if he’s shouting off of mountain tops. The words ring around his head, Mesut is unsure if he can really trust himself. After everything else he’s denied himself, it’s only natural he wouldn’t believe this to be true as well.

But then Mathieu kisses him again, and Mesut know this is real. This is real life and he is well and truly alive.The seatbelt digs into Mesut’s shoulder, a cutting pain as he leans forwards, chasing Mathieu’s lips, his touch, him. His head is dizzy and Mesut feels on another plane, in a different world. One without pain or sadness. His world, he was living in his very own world, and it was perfect.The rough feeling of stubble under Mesut’s thumb and the small pressure as Mathieu tugs on his hair. It was perfect.

Mathieu nibbles on Mesut’s bottom lip, pulls it between his teeth and Mesut sighs as he pulls away completely. He felt totally at peace for the first time since he’d arrived in England, the world no longer tormenting him with roads too loud and voices too quiet. Everything was levelling out, a seamless transition into a new part of Mesut’s life. It felt like this place could finally become home.

Mathieu laughs and so does Mesut. When everything seemed to be leading up to this particular moment, it felt completely surreal, and all they could do was laugh, light and airy and happy, so happy. Mesut still had his hand on Mathieu’s cheek, Mathieu was messaging the back of Mesut’s head and Mesut had never felt so undeniably happy.

-

The season finishes with a win over Norwich. They had secured top four, they still had an FA cup final. Mesut felt good. Not great, he still saw the scenes as Manchester City won the league, still felt like that could’ve been him. But it was no use holding a grudge, he still had a chance of a trophy, he still had a few more seasons with Arsenal to win the league. He had struggled to settle in the league originally, didn’t expect so many bruises and so little sympathy. He had to wake up, get used to a new reality, but now Mesut loves it. He loves the Premier League.

Mesut loves Mathieu.

It doesn’t feel real, even after a couple of weeks. That he loves someone and they love him back. Mesut has to look in the mirror as a reminder that he is still him, and he is Mesut Özil, Arsenal player, and he’s in love. Mesut doesn’t think about Real Madrid anymore. He doesn’t miss the hot weather, and lazy afternoons. He’s found where he belongs in rainy days and green hills and hay fever season. Mesut smiles, this was never the plan, but it was so much better than what he could have ever planned.

They go back to the same restaurant as when they had first played Norwich all those months ago. Mesut never thought a seemingly irrelevant win would change his entire life. He never thought he’d find love with a short French man who has a reputation for being too aggressive. Mesut grins as he listens to Mathieu talk about how all referees _obviously_ have a thing against Arsenal, and how all his red cards were _definitely_ unfair. Mesut knew that wasn’t quite true, but agreed just to see Mathieu smile.

It felt like a new chapter in his life. Mesut thought moving to Arsenal would be the biggest thing to change, but that wasn’t how it happened. Life never goes the way one expects. It was like earthquakes or eclipses. Everything had aligned perfectly in one moment, and the consequences of that were unavoidable, too noticeable to deny. But it wasn’t the end of the world, and no one had to die. Through disaster not only are they surviving, they’re living. Mesut knew these moments would be the best in his life.

So, Mesut allowed the sun to reappear from behind it’s overarching barrier, allowed himself to feel that warmth what he’s always wanted. An eclipse doesn’t last forever, Mesut was proof of that as he allowed himself to love the way he wanted to do so. The darkness was disappearing, Mesut lets himself look at the sun. He watches as Mathieu scans thoughtfully over a menu. The sun himself.

-

Mesut yawns as he wakes up, a little bit earlier than needed. He’s always had a tendency to wake up before his alarm, no matter what time said alarm would go off. And today was no different. Except it was different because Mesut was waking up due to nerves in his stomach and chest rather than a weird body clock.

The FA cup final was being played that evening, and it had left Mesut unable to sleep, as the nerves began to sink in for the first time. Mesut always felt the pressure on his shoulders, that he has to perform, and anything he does, he could do better. If he lets himself down today, the disappointment will settle hard and fast on him, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue to burn the back of his throat. He’d rather the taste of sugar melt into his bloodstream.

That’s why he’s glad to roll over and find Mathieu awake, a nervous smile playing on his lips as Mesut leans in to kiss him, just for a second. Mesut would never breathe again just to be able to kiss Mathieu forever. He’d waste his dying breath for Mathieu’s lips alone.

But he pulls back anyway, grins despite his nerves. The room was still dark, the shutters closed tight so not a ray of sunlight could filter through. The world outside stops existing, at least for a while. And then it’s the two of them, and nothing else. And the darkness brings comfort, that the day hasn’t begun yet, the pressure doesn’t mount yet. Mesut can still breathe just fine.

“Good morning, mon chérie,” Mathieu whispered, brushing Mesut’s hair out of his eyes gently. Mesut was slowly adjusting himself to the smatterings of French Mathieu used, and he liked the way the sounded coming from Mathieu’s mouth. Mesut had asked Mathieu to speak French to him, just to hear his natural voice with his natural tongue. He liked the way it flowed, how it was both rough around the edges but smooth as whole. Mesut had a feeling Mathieu makes the meaning more significant when he asked him to translate, but he doesn’t mind. Mathieu spoke more French after that night, and Mesut didn’t feel like he was missing out by not understanding, didn’t feel inadequate and like he didn’t belong. The different language was simply another part of his life across the vast world Mesut lives in. He was beginning to except that. “How are you feeling?”

Mesut shrugs, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, and Mathieu traces random patterns with his index finger across Mesut’s bare chest, sending goose bumps along his skin. “Confident, excited, nervous,” he replies, seeing exactly nothing in front of his eyes and taking in the sense of calm that brings. Everything will be fine because at the end of the day this room will still be dark and Mathieu will still be beside him. “What about you?”

Mathieu smiles and Mesut knows because he can feel his lips ghost along his neck, nipping Mesut just below his jawline so he flinches, and only then does he speak, whilst Mesut can feel a dull pulse under his skin, “We’ll wait and see if I’m on the team sheet first,” he mumbles, before finally pressing soft lips to the tormented patch of skin, cooling it slightly, but Mesut frowned slightly.

Mathieu strokes his thumb along Mesut’s cheek, so Mesut turns his head to look at him, a lazy smile training Mathieu’s face, “Don’t worry my love, you think about yourself and I’ll think about me.” They’d set out terms pretty quickly on how their relationship would work. The main thing was to keep football not separate, but a contained part of their lives. Because if they break up they have to remain professional at the club, and there was always the possibility of transfers. Essentially, when it came to football, they each had their own careers the other couldn’t influence. So, Mesut nodded, but couldn’t help wishing Mathieu had a permanent place in the team.

“We could just stay here, forever,” Mesut says, because his body is permanently slightly stiff and his bed, their bed, is so comfy. Mesut just wanted to lie with Mathieu forever, he’d take that over starting in the FA cup final. (Not entirely true, but a comfy bed clouds Mesut’s judgement.)

Mathieu laughs, the sound echoing in the room. Mesut read that sound travels clearer in the dark, and Mesut was one to believe it as Mathieu’s laugh speeds his heart up like no other time. Mathieu then drags himself closer, draping his body across Mesut so their legs end up slotting together like jigsaw puzzle pieces. Perfectly shaped and put together, Mesut could definitely go back to sleep like this.

Mathieu kisses Mesut again, for lack of having better words, to show that he agrees. Mesut had always been able to silently communicate with other players on the pitch, and that skill transferred to Mathieu. He knew what every hand gesture and kiss meant, exactly what Mathieu tries to convey without words. They have a perfect connection, Mesut can feel it in his fingertips as he runs them along Mathieu’s back, slowly dragging them along his spine.

“We’ll miss out on the celebrations then,” Mathieu mumbles, his lips brushing Mesut’s as he spoke, hot air blowing out on his face. Mesut grins, can hear the excitement spark in Mathieu’s voice. They’re going to win a trophy, Mathieu knows it and Mesut believes him.

Mesut pinches the skin around Mathieu’s waist, then wriggles out from underneath him, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. The room is cold without a duvet and another person to keep him warm. Mesut wishes he could crawl straight back into bed. But his stomach is jumping, so knowing he won’t be able to sleep he gets up. “Confident, the boss will like that,” he says, looking over his shoulder to see Mathieu still led down, duvet falling off his shoulders elegantly.

“I thought we said not to mention Wenger in this room.”

“You’re the one who put a photograph of him in here,” Mesut retaliates, smirking as Mathieu blushes. That is one thing Mesut will never live down.

“I didn’t think it was _that_ weird until you said,” he stammered, and Mesut rolls his eyes, grinning. He loved Mathieu. “It’s a nice photo…”

“Put it in the living then, not the bedroom,” Mesut replies, standing up and walking around the bed towards the door, but stopping at Mathieu’s side. Mesut leans over and kisses him, a grin still plastered on his face, “I love you.”

Mathieu’s blush doesn’t disappear from his face even then, “Love you too,” he murmurs, his voice oozing affection, in a way Mesut isn’t sure he’s worthy. Mathieu sat up then, duvet falling off his body, looking smooth like water the way it flows off his shoulder, “Now come one, let’s win an FA cup.”

-

They weren’t winning.

Two goals down within ten minutes, 2-1 down by half time. This wasn’t going to be their first trophy in nine years, at least not currently. Mesut sat in the huge Wembley changing room at half time feeling ill. Once again, the fans would be let down, once again they weren’t good enough. Mesut was desperate to prove them wrong, to prove to everyone that Arsenal can win, Arsenal will win.

Mathieu is tight lipped, and it’s times like this that they don’t speak. No one is speaking. The dressing room is silent bar Wenger, but Mesut isn’t able to take it in. He can’t let the fans down. He can’t let himself down. Most importantly he can’t let Mathieu down. Arsenal can win, Arsenal will win.

Mesut listens as he hears the rallying cries of everyone else, as Wenger completes his final speech. He looks over at Mathieu, and Mesut knows how desperate he is to play, briefly hopes he gets the chance between the strong hope for success. He wipes dirt of his shirt and bangs his boots on the floor, studs ringing out as the metal marks the hard floor. The team are determined, ready to go and Mesut knows he is too. Arsenal can win, Arsenal will win.

So that’s what they did.

-

Mesut had only just taken his seat on the bench, his legs wobbly from fatigue and his breath not quite caught, when he was stood up, along with the rest of the stadium. He was cheering with all the other fans too.

Because Aaron, goddamn Aaron Ramsey, with his injuries and brilliance scores the goal, the winner. And everything erupts, the fans, the players and Mesut’s heart. He can feel the blood rush to his heart, which had not quite come down from playing as it begins to race again. So fast, he thinks it could never stop. Mesut doesn’t know who he’s hugging and in the back of his mind he knows the game isn’t over, but in the fore front they are finally ahead. They are finally winning.

And a little over ten minutes goes by and they have won. And to Mesut it’s a trophy, but to the fans it’s nine years of waiting for this moment to come. Mesut can feel that, all the emotions swarming around a half-filled stadium. Only red remained, and Mesut is falling in love with that particular shade of Arsenal red. It’s a dizzying sight as he stares around the stadium.

It was at Wembley stadium that he finally, finally felt at home. That these fans were his, the clubs crest his. Mesut feels like a brand new person stood in the middle of a green pitch with his red blood pumping Arsenal. The whole situation was so surreal to Mesut, the blue sky above blinding. It was a beautiful day, almost too perfect. Mesut slaps his own cheeks to bring him back to reality, before he dissociates out of his own body.

He manages to catch Aaron, between the lingering bodies on the pitch. The Hull players were long gone. He pulls him into a hug, and Mesut hadn’t seen him so happy before. The smile wouldn’t disappear from his face, and he deserved that. With a glow swarming him like the summer sun, Mesut felt warm in his company. It was like he’d absorbed the sun itself, was emitting it’s light and power. Mesut could feel how much this meant to him, the magnitude ten times stronger than how it felt in Mesut’s bones.

“We did it, Mesut,” he says, shouting over the crowd yet his voice is still soft, still calm, even then Aaron was the same man. Nothing much could change him, Mesut decided then. And he hoped that was true, too.

Mesut shakes his head, laughs to himself more than others, “You did it,” he quips. This was Aaron’s trophy to take, it’s his name that will be remembered on this day, not Mesut’s. Oli’s assist should get some credit, but assists never get remembered like goals do. Mesut realised that quite quickly. So today is Arsenal’s day and Aaron Ramsey’s day and they hug once more before Aaron is pulled away by someone else desperate to congratulate, to say thank you. It’s a heavy thanks, one that may bare more weight in years to come than it does in those moments.

They lift the trophy on the balcony of Wembley stadium, the surrealism returning and in the heights of the stadium, with fans on every side, Mesut can feel himself losing orbit. Taking off to never come back. Mesut had won before, but somehow this meant more. To everyone around him, to every voice he could hear despite the words being unrecognisable, it meant more. The feeling couldn’t be emulated anywhere else, and he leans on the barrier in an attempt to keep him from floating away.

Champagne flew into Mesut’s face as they celebrated on the pitch. Droplets that were cold even in that hot sun, they felt almost like ice on Mesut’s skin, and he rubbed his eyes. Silver streamers caught in Mesut’s hair, flying onto the pitch in a flurry, a perfect storm. Wilsh was going crazy next to Mesut, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Dignity was a thing of the past in those moments.

The crowds cheered for Wenger as much, if not more than the players. The players celebrated their manager as much, if not more than the winning goal.

Life at Arsenal football club was looking up. The future is bright.

It’s only walking back to the changing rooms that Mathieu catches Mesut. Having been so caught up in the games, the trophy, the crackling sensation around that pitch. One had not been on the others mind then, but Mesut wants to kiss Mathieu right there, just in the entrance to the tunnel. His fingers beg for him to touch and he has to take a breath, walk with a smile on his face. Nothing else.

Trust Mathieu however to know hiding places in Wembley, and he grabs Mesut’s wrist, always so careful, and pulls him away as other Arsenal players file into the dressing room, music already booming through thin walls and swinging doors. Mathieu dragged Mesut away from the team, and Mesut follows, smile plastered on his face growing ever wider.

The sound of studs clang along the hallway, and of course it isn’t empty, people are always rushing about even now. But Mathieu’s smarter than Mesut will ever understand, and somehow, he sneaks them into a room at the end of the white washed corridor. And then it’s just them.

Mesut doesn’t have time to move or speak or even think really, because Mathieu is on him in a flash, backing Mesut up against the door so there’s no chance of a soul getting in, grabbing Mesut’s face between his hands and pushing his tongue down Mesut’s throat. And Mesut just sighs, let his eyes flutter shut and took it all in. Felt the heat in Mathieu’s fingertips and the desperation in his kiss. This, the trophy, meant as much to Mathieu as any one else, maybe more. Mesut can feel as much, can feel the way Mathieu is on the pitch in his kiss. Desperate and passionate and hopeful. Hopeful for a better future.

When he pulls back, his breath shuddering along with Mesut’s and he has a wild look in his eyes, Mesut couldn’t help but laugh, shaky and unapologetic. Mathieu laughed too, both were elated, neither were quite touching the ground.

When Mesut kisses Mathieu he keeps the pace a little slower, controls the movement a little more. They aren’t much different off the pitch than on, surprisingly. Mesut calms both their racing heartbeats, let’s his hands rest on Mathieu’s hips, swipes his tongue along Mathieu’s teeth in tantalizing fashion. Sometimes Mesut wonders why he could ever think this was wrong or bad. That thought doesn’t linger for long as Mathieu pulls away again, Mesut emitting a miniscule whine at the loss.

Mathieu rests his forehead on Mesut’s, warm and heavy, and runs his hand through Mesut’s hair which was wet with sweat. He smiles and whispers, “Oh Mesut, I have never loved you as much as I do now.”

Nothing else mattered, because they are in love. Not the future, the past, not even the present.

They are in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 2014 FA cup celebrations make me really emotional even though I wasn't a fan then I just, the clubs future really was looking up then and now it's just a mess on a downhill spiral. Anyway if Mesut signs a new contract this fic is basically canon.   
> Also I don't know Mesut's and Aaron's relationship, but in Mesut's book it mentions that he does fuck about with Aaron in training, and considering they're my two favourite players I just made them buddies lmao.  
> Games mentioned:  
> 1\. Chelsea 6-0 Arsenal 22/3/14 (Wenger's 1000th Arsenal game :/)  
> 2\. Hull City 0-3 Arsenal 20/4/14  
> 3\. Norwich City 0-2 Arsenal 11/5/14  
> 4\. Arsenal 3-2 Hull City a.e.t (FA Cup final 2014)   
> My tumblr is fuck-football so hmu there if you want to cry about Mesut, Aaron or the potential downfall of Arsenal that we are currently witnessing.   
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Games mentioned in order are:  
> 1\. Arsenal 4-1 Norwich City 19/10/13  
> 2\. Cardiff City 0-3 Arsenal 30/11/13  
> 3\. Manchester City 6-3 Arsenal 14/12/13  
> 4\. Liverpool 5-1 Arsenal 8/2/14  
> 5\. Arsenal 0-2 Bayern Munich 19/2/14 
> 
> Pt.2 is written and just needs to be edited. Will be out soon :).


End file.
